


Do I Know You?

by D_melanogaster



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Hiding in Plain Sight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-23
Updated: 2013-01-23
Packaged: 2017-11-26 15:00:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/651590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/D_melanogaster/pseuds/D_melanogaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>At Speedy's, there's a university student who could have easily passed for Sherlock's son or nephew, but who is much too young to actually be Sherlock. The day after that, there's an old man at the grocery store, hobbling along with a cane, and he is precisely what John thinks Sherlock would have looked like had he been allowed to grow so old. John thinks that this is quite unfair. He thinks that he has suffered enough already; he's still not okay with the fact that his friend is dead, but he's managed to cope, and he does not need a psychotic break now that he is finally starting to get better. </i>
</p>
<p>Even a master of disguise, supposedly dead though he is, will look familiar to those who knew him if they only look closely enough.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Network

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sure this comes as a shock to everyone, but I don't actually own any part of Sherlock Holmes and I don't know any of the people who do.

She used to have a home, and it wasn't London. It wasn't a big city at all, just a little place near Leeds, and she spent most of her time there wishing she was somewhere else. And then she came to London, and now she spends most of her time wishing she'd never left.  
  


Anyway, she knows what homesickness is, and how it feels, and even what it looks like, and even though she doesn't know the relief of homecoming, she's spent enough time imagining it that she reckons she has an idea of what it must be like. And the man on the bridge is that image exactly. That's why she's still looking at him; she doesn't have much else to do but to watch people, and there's something in him that drew her attention, and now she can't tear her eyes away.  
  


He's not quite smiling, yet he looks happy – but not completely, more like he maybe hasn't got a whole lot to be happy about but he's content for the moment anyway. He looks really tired, like when you do when you haven't slept properly in days, but he can't stay still, like he's full of energy and he has to use it for something so he taps out a rhythm on the railing. She likes to think he's not high, but that it's because something else has given him a boost.

  
And why does she think it's because he's back home? Well, why else would he have stopped on the Tower Bridge to stare at the scenery and almost-but-not-quite smile? He's not a tourist, clearly, as he's obviously admiring the view but there's no camera to be seen, and all the tourists snap pictures of everything these days, especially around here. He's most definitely been here before, and she'd bet it's because he lives or used to live in London. He definitely had a clear destination in mind when he came to this place.

  
Listen to her, it's like she thinks she's Sherlock Holmes! She's heard him doing his bit a few times, and she likes to think he'd agree with her assessment of the homesick man. She can't ask Holmes, though – not only because she never would have had the nerve, and he wouldn't have had the patience, and there's no way this man would have been deemed interesting enough for him to pay attention, but also because Sherlock Holmes jumped from the roof of a hospital three months ago and he's quite dead. So he's not going to be agreeing with anybody on anything anymore.

  
It's three months to the day, there was a big fuss right around when it all happened, and they mentioned it in the headlines again today. She doesn't know why, she never gets the day's paper right away, but she thinks they've deemed him a good man again. She knows he was a good man; he gave her and her peers something interesting to do, aside from a few quips about hygiene he didn't look down on the lot of them, and he was a bloody fine tipper. She always knew there must've been something good about him, the way he treated the homeless so decently.

  
They weren't exactly friends; she doesn't think he had all that many friends, and neither has she, but she liked the man. Maybe it's because he's been dead for three months, and she feels like perhaps she ought to finally do something to pay her respects, but she wanders to the man she's been watching for the past ten minutes.

  
"'Scuse me, sir?" she starts, since she figures he's more likely to play along if she's polite. "Can I ask – have you been away long?"

  
The man seems startled – more than surprised, and almost frightened, and she knows it was a bad idea, she knows she looks every bit as homeless as she is, and not very trustworthy, but she hoped he would play along. Her heart sinks. He probably won't, if a curious vagrant disturbs him so. He'll probably just leave.

  
But no, he looks at her for a moment, and relaxes again. "A while. Why?" His voice is low, and a bit rough. It almost sounds familiar, but not enough that she's sure she's not just imagining it.

  
"You look like you're glad to be back?" She's a bit timid, still, so it comes out as a question, even though it wasn't supposed to. He smiles, a bit.

  
"How so?" he asks, and since he's playing along as well as he is, she might as well just tell him what she thinks. He asked for it.

  
"Well, you've been standing here for ages, just staring, but you knew where you were going when you came, and you haven't got a camera so I don't reckon you're a tourist. And you look a bit happy and a bit relieved, and a little sad. I think if I got to go home, that's how I'd feel, and I'd go someplace that hasn't changed and just stare for a while, too." His smile widens a little at her explanation – it's almost a proper smile, now – and she feels her confidence grow by leaps and bounds. Sherlock Holmes may not be able to agree with her, but she thinks this man will tell her she's right.

  
"Impressive," he says, and she feels almost as though he's just given her a pat on the back, or a hot drink.

  
"So you've been homesick?" she prods, when he says nothing else, and he nods.

  
"I'll have to go away again soon, but it's good to see the town's still standing," he says, and she feels like maybe he's talking to himself a little, now. "Do you often deduce things about random strangers?"

  
"Deduce? Well, no. There was this detective I sorta knew who used to deduce things. Blimey, he was so good it was like he could read your mind. He's been dead for three months today, and I figured I'd give it a go. For his sake or whatever. 'Cos he was a good man, you see? 'M not half as good as he was, I know, just wanted to know if I was right," she says with a shrug, and again he seems a bit surprised, but in a good way. Like she's impressed him. Like maybe she's made him a bit happier, but she can't see why that is.

  
"Really?" he sounds glad, and his voice sounds a little rougher, and who knows, maybe he's touched. Or maybe she's touched in the head, for thinking such things. "You're a clever one, aren't you? You are right. And you knew because you miss home yourself?"

  
She just nods, now, because she doesn't really want to open up to the random stranger more than she already has, and he doesn't press. He just digs out his wallet and hands her £200.  _Two hundred_  pounds. Just like that.

  
"You should go home. Or if you can't, get a night at a hotel, at least. And a cup of tea," he says, when she just stares at the money as if she's never seen a pound note in her life. It's the "cup of tea" that does it, now she knows why the voice sounded somewhat familiar, and in her shock, she just blurts it out.

  
"You remind him a bit, you know. The eyes and clothes and hair are all wrong, but you're a bit like him. And you're a good man, too," she stammers out, and as she's saying it, she realises it's actually very true. His eyes are dark and framed by a pair of thick glasses, and his hair is straight and light and cut differently, and Sherlock Holmes wore such posh clothes but this man is dressed in jeans, trainers and a sports coat. He stands differently, too; Sherlock Holmes was a proud man, he kept his head up high and his back straight, and this man is a bit slouched over. No, he's not Holmes, but he could be a second cousin or something.

  
The man smiles again, sadder this time, and now he actually pats her shoulder. Or more like he puts his hand down on it, and then quickly pulls back again.

  
"Go home," he repeats, and starts walking away. He's almost out of hearing range before she has the wits to call out "Thank you, sir!" after him. She's sure he heard, but he doesn't acknowledge it. Oh, well. Maybe she really should try to go home. If strangers can be so generous, maybe her family might feel kind, too.

  
The next day, when she sees the headlines on her way to the train station, they're not about Sherlock Holmes anymore. Something big has happened, something involving a smuggling ring, and arrests, and someone's died, but she doesn't know more because she doesn't really care about the news today.

 


	2. Lestrade

Detective Inspector Lestrade has had better days. He feels like he's coming down with something, so really he only wants to stay in bed and sleep until the feeling goes away. Unfortunately, there's been a murder, and he's been called to a crime scene in the middle of the bloody night – three o'clock in the morning – and he's working with Donovan and Anderson. He hasn't had to work with the two of them together in a while; Donovan took some time off after the whole thing with Sherlock, and out of sheer luck he has mostly had the pleasure of working with other forensic scientists, but now Donovan's back and Anderson was on call.

  
He doesn't blame them for anything, not anymore, at least, but he's not quite over it yet, either. So, working with the both of them  _at three o'clock in the bloody morning_  is not how he would have started his day, had he been given a choice.

  
It's been roughly six months since Sherlock died, and there have been plenty of cases where Lestrade would have loved to have been able to call the consulting detective for advice, but this one is something else. So much so that while everyone else feels sorry for the victim, Lestrade feels sorry for Sherlock, who surely would have loved to see the poor fellow who's been shot and then hung up by his ankles, and who's wearing a robe that someone on the team identified as a Roman Catholic cassock, even though he worked in a chip shop. Or at least that's where he worked according to the stuff in the wallet they found lying on the ground below the corpse, and which, they've pieced together, belongs to the victim. They're in a small courtyard of a little hotel, and the man's still hanging from the railing of a first floor balcony. The rope's long enough that his face is level with Lestrade's. Sherlock would've been grinning like a nutter at the sight.

  
There's been a distinct lack of cheer on his crime scenes since Sherlock's death, and while it used to make him feel uneasy how a man could get so happy about a serial killer or wax poetic about murder weapons like Sherlock could, it now seems like the mood is always too sombre and nobody ever feels anything but disgusted. Which, perhaps, is how it should be on murder scenes, but after working with Sherlock for years, it feels unnatural.

  
Lestrade has been trying to take the whole scene in for a few minutes, and he's wondering how on earth he's going to make sense of it on three hours of sleep and one cup of lousy coffee, when it feels like a good idea to share his thoughts with the rest of the team.

  
"This is a bloody mess," he says, thinking of how the room that the balcony the victim is hanging from is attached to was empty and locked, with no signs of forced entry and with all the keys accounted for, and how holders of said keys all have so far unchecked but seemingly solid alibis. And how nobody seems to have seen anything, and how nobody seems to know how a man living in Manchester ended up dead in London.

  
Several people agree with him, and someone mutters that there's not enough coffee in England for them to handle this right now.

  
"You know who would have loved this, though?" Lestrade continues, and now nobody says anything. He doesn't know if it's just around him, but Sherlock Holmes has not been mentioned amongst the Yarders, not once since the case of his suicide was put away. Maybe they think he can't take it, or maybe nobody else has felt like talking about it, either.

  
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Sally Donovan shaking her head.

  
"Oh, like he wouldn't have just told you it was boring and gone swanning off," she replies, but the venom that used to colour her voice whenever Sherlock was around or spoken of is distinctly not there. She sounds almost wistful.

  
"Holmes probably would have taken a look at the victim's left hand or something and told us the murderer, and we would've been able to get some sleep sometime this week," pipes in a member of the forensics team. Anderson, who's directly in Lestrade's line of sight, tenses up at this.

  
It's probably the suggestion that it'll take them a week to understand what Sherlock would have been able to tell from a single glance that brings the flush on Anderson's face. Oh, no, not only that – Lestrade turns to look at where Anderson's staring, and sees Mycroft Holmes. Well, that would probably explain Anderson's embarrassment, then, as hardly anyone has yet forgotten the dressing down the Chief Superintendent – and consequently, Donovan and Anderson – received the morning after Sherlock's death.

  
It was something to see, all right; Lestrade had front row seats to the thing, as he'd been called to meet with the Superintendent and had been in the right place at the right time. Mycroft Holmes had strolled in, umbrella and all, with his P.A. in tow, and gone straight to the Superintendent's office. He'd introduced himself, and shown the superintendent his identification, presumably with impressive credentials, as that had made the other man sit up straighter and pay attention. Then, with the door of the office still open, Mycroft had proceeded to calmly but in a carrying voice list all the ways the NSY had wronged his brother in the past few days. Of course, Mycroft hadn't quite put it that way, but had called it "setting straight the case of James Moriarty", instead.

  
Sherlock had not been a civilian, he had had authorisation from the government, and so it had been quite all right for the New Scotland Yard to work with him. Richard Brook was an alias for one James Moriarty, who was decidedly not a character Sherlock had made up, as anyone with access to the official records would have been able to easily confirm. The screaming of a traumatised child was hardly enough evidence to base an arrest on, and no, the fact that Sherlock had been able to deduce where the children were held was not necessarily based on previous knowledge of their whereabouts, but rather a keen grasp on forensic science. The traumatised child in question had been interviewed by a psychiatrist, and it turned out it was the coat, and not the man, that had frightened her so.

  
To back this all up, Mycroft's P.A. had a stack of files that she apparently dropped on the Chief's desk. The dull "thud" could be heard to the corridor where Lestrade was waiting.

  
At this point, the Superintendent tried to argue that it was hardly the behaviour of an innocent man to shoot Moriarty and then kill himself, and for a moment, it seemed like Mycroft Holmes was tempted to do as John Watson had, and clock the Superintendent in the face. Instead, he demanded to see Sherlock's phone, and Gregson, who was in charge of the investigation of what had happened on top of St Bart's, hurried to bring the smart phone to the office, still in the plastic bag reserved for evidence.

  
And Mycroft Holmes, now holding the attention of everyone who could possibly fit within the casual eavesdropping range, dug out the phone and fiddled with it for a moment, and suddenly, the voices of the consulting detective and the consultant criminal could be heard.

  
The conversation effectively chilled Lestrade to the bone. There was Moriarty, speaking of a key code, the origin of the name Rich Brook, and a final problem, but that wasn't the worst, no; it was the choice, either you die or your friends will, that got to him. Moriarty had threatened John, Mrs Hudson, and Lestrade, and Sherlock had died for them. And there was Sherlock, so alive, so clever to the bitter end, catching Moriarty's little slip about calling off the killers. There was that whole "you're me"-thing, which Lestrade did not agree with at all. And then the gunshot. The sound of Sherlock's surprise, and then the recording was cut off.

  
It didn't sound much like Sherlock had been guilty of murder and the fraud he'd been accused of, as Mycroft pointed out. Then he'd left, and as is the way of the world, the Superintendent had of course taken his embarrassment out on the officers who brought him into it, and Lestrade knows Mycroft knew he would. Lestrade suspected the main reason this whole thing had not been handled by one of Mycroft's underlings via official channels was that Mycroft had wanted to hear the recording straight from Sherlock's phone as soon as possible, and had perhaps wished to extend a bit of his own revenge on the people who had made his brother's final days that much harder, by humiliating them in front of their colleagues.

  
Either way, Lestrade is grateful. Even though he knows now that it was not their fault Sherlock jumped, it felt good to see the most fervent participants of the witch hunt get their dues. They are still the reason that the last time he saw Sherlock, he'd been arresting his friend for something the consulting detective hadn't even done, and he would never get the chance to apologise.

  
Lestrade has seen Mycroft only once since that morning, at Sherlock's funeral. The elder Holmes looks much the same as always, maybe a bit thinner, and definitely more tired, but that could be due to the early hour.

  
Mycroft's flanked by a crowd of official looking personnel, and Lestrade somehow gets the feeling he'll end up getting some more sleep tonight, after all. He wanders over to them without a word to his team.

  
"Mr Holmes, to what do I owe the pleasure?" he asks, giving a nod as a hello.

  
"Detective Inspector," Mycroft replies, inclining his head slightly in response. "This matter here is related to something we're working on, I'm afraid. We would like any evidence you may have gathered, and room to work." Which is his polite way of saying sod off, you're off the case.

  
"Right. All yours, then," Lestrade says, as he knows enough of the elder Holmes to know that arguing would be useless. And it's not like he really wants to argue, anyway, as he's just been thinking of how hopeless the case looks.

  
He gathers up his people, and he's about to leave, but then he takes one last look at the scene. Maybe it's just the unusual case and the presence of Mycroft Holmes that have brought Sherlock to the forefront of his mind tonight, but one of Mycroft's people reminds him of Sherlock so vividly that Lestrade has to look at him twice over. He doesn't look like Sherlock as Lestrade last saw him, no – the resemblance is more to the Sherlock he first met, the strung out, rail-thin junkie with the wildest hair and the brightest mind Lestrade had ever seen.

  
The man's ginger, with flat, slicked back hair, a stubbly beard and a matching moustache, and even from a distance Lestrade can tell his eyes are dark, instead of the piercing blue he's used to. The beard isn't enough to mask the gaunt face, and the protruding cheekbones look so familiar that it almost hurts. The man looks ill; he's very pale, and he has dark bags under his eyes that the wire-rimmed glasses he's wearing seem to be enhancing, but he's not suffering from withdrawal, as the Sherlock Lestrade first knew was. His hands are perfectly steady as he works, and he doesn't fidget in the least. He's wearing a suit, as Sherlock always was, and that adds to the resemblance. The suit is nowhere near as well-tailored as Sherlock's were, though.

  
"Is there a problem with Sigerson, Inspector?" Mycroft's voice knocks Lestrade out of his reverie, and he realises he's been staring at the ginger man for far longer than is socially acceptable.

  
"Not at all, I was just thinking," he replies, and Mycroft raises an eyebrow as a prompt for him to elaborate. "About Sherlock, actually. Just that I bet he would have loved this case, is all. He did always like the weird ones."

  
Mycroft blinks – as big a show of surprise as Lestrade would ever expect from him – and nods slowly. He looks like maybe he'd like to say something but can't quite find the words, so Lestrade saves him the trouble and continues before the other man has time to speak.

  
"It's just as well that you lot showed up, really. It doesn't feel right working cases like these anymore. And we're bloody rubbish at it, anyway," he says, more bitterly than in the joking, self-deprecating manner he was aiming for. "So, yeah. Have fun, and I suppose I'll see you around."

  
"Inspector Lestrade?" Mycroft's voice stops him as he's turning to leave. "I think my brother would abhor the idea of the man he called 'Scotland Yard's brightest D.I.' giving up on the interesting cases simply because of his absence."

  
"Who said anything about giving up?" Lestrade rebuffs, mostly to hide the grin the other man's words threaten to bring on.  _Brightest D.I.,_  indeed – Sherlock had never called him bright, not once in his life, but he had called him the least idiotic once or twice, and perhaps that was roughly the equivalent in Sherlockese. "Good night, Mr Holmes."

  
Lestrade leaves without looking back, and entirely misses the small, almost wistful smile on the face of the ginger man called Sigerson as he watches the D.I. walk away, and the grateful look he gives Mycroft, before he turns back to his work.

 


	3. Molly

  
Doctor Molly Hooper has not had an easy time these past ten months. Well, ten months, two weeks and five days, but who's counting?

  
That's how long it's been since she's last seen Sherlock Holmes. The last time she saw him, she snuck him out of her morgue after helping him fake his death, and as far as she knows, he's working on dismantling Moriarty's web so he can come back home. Of course, it may well be that something's happened to him, or that he's given it up as a bad job, and that she's waiting for something that's never going to happen.

  
She thinks of him often, at work when there's an interesting autopsy that he would find fascinating, or when she's filling out paperwork – doing the paperwork for Sherlock's autopsy was certainly a memorable occasion, as he was the first of her patients to read it over her shoulder and give her tips on what to write. She supposes he'll be the last, too. She thinks of him at home, as well, because she can't help it. He's her friend, and she worries, and it almost feels like since she's one of three people who know he's still alive, she's worrying on behalf of all his other friends as well.

  
She knows it's awful, but sometimes on the nights when she can't sleep for wondering where he is and what he's doing, she wishes Sherlock hadn't let her in on his secret. If she thought he was dead, she could process it and try to move on, but she's stuck in a horrible limbo where she doesn't know what's happened to him and is constantly afraid for him, and for all she knows, there may not even be a reason to be concerned!

  
It's probably because he's always so prominently on her mind that when she finally does see him again, she recognises him almost instantly, even though he doesn't look like himself at all.

  
It's a Wednesday night, and she's on her way home from work when she spots him at the Tube station. He's tanned, and his hair is a very light brown and sticking up in all directions. He's dressed casually, in blue jeans and a thick jumper, and he's pretending to read a newspaper, but really he keeps glancing at her. He's lost a considerable amount of weight, and as there was nothing extra on his body in the first place, it's made his features even sharper. There's also a bit of stubble on his face, which throws her off at first, as it makes him look so much older. She realises she's never seen him anything but freshly-shaven before now.

  
It's the eyes that really give it up, though. It's not only the bright blue colour of them that's distinctive, but also the fierce intelligence they betray, and the sharpness of his gaze. Aside from Sherlock and his brother, she's never seen anyone with eyes even remotely like that.

  
There's probably a reason why Sherlock hasn't just come to talk to her already, and Molly believes – hopes – that he intends to, but it's better to let him do it his way. That's why she keeps going, and she's not worried when she hears the sound of footsteps following close behind her on the dark streets, not even when the sound keeps following her all the way to her building.

  
She lingers at the door so she can let him in, and he smiles at her gratefully but doesn't say anything yet. Molly takes the hint, and although she smiles back brighter than she has smiled since she last saw him, she doesn't say anything, either. Neither one of them really acknowledges the other before they're in Molly's flat, and the moment the door closes, Molly throws her arms around him, giving him a quite strong hug. To her surprise, he even reciprocates a little, after he's over the first shock.

  
"I can honestly say I have never been so glad to see anyone in my life," she says, still smiling like an idiot, when she lets go of him. It could be just her imagination, but she thinks he looks a little glad to see her, too.

  
"Have you been ill? You look unwell," is the first thing he says, and his face pulls into a slight frown as he takes her in properly. Molly can't help it, really; she bursts into a bout of hysterical laughter, and she has to lean on him for support to stay standing somewhat straight.

  
If he had wanted to start the conversation with something that was quintessentially  _Sherlock_ , he couldn't have picked a better thing to say. How many times in the past ten months has Molly thought that she'd never again complain of his insensitive commentary, if only he came back? Well, she has got what she wished for, there.

  
Sherlock's starting to look offended, so Molly hastens to reassure him.

  
"Oh, no, I didn't mean to laugh at you," she says, and for a moment, it's as if she's her old timid self, and Sherlock's presence has turned her into a twittering idiot. "It was just so like _you_  – oh, you don't know how much I've missed that!"

  
"I was just making a simple observation," Sherlock says, still slightly petulant, "and you haven't answered my question."

  
"Have I been ill? Not really, no," she hedges, because she knows she doesn't look her best at the moment. She's lost some weight, too, even if it's not as obvious as his weight loss, and she's very tired, but how is she supposed to tell Sherlock that it's mostly because she has been worried sick about him? "It's been busy at work, that's all. And I've been worried about you, too." With Sherlock, even if she doesn't want to emphasise her concern for him, she can't very well leave it out, either. He'd notice and start deducing what it was that she left out, and really, it's best for both of them if she just saves him the trouble.

  
It hits her then that they're still standing by the door, so she invites him in, and asks him if he'd like to have something to eat or drink.

  
"No, thank you, I don't eat while I'm on a case," is the response she expects, and also the one she gets. If he's spent ten months almost continuously on the same case, it's no wonder he looks so emaciated.

  
"Not even coffee? No milk, two sugars, same as always?" Even if she can't get him to eat, she'll get him to ingest something. Sherlock shrugs, so Molly leads him to the kitchen, where they're greeted by her cat, Toby. Sherlock absentmindedly pets the cat and takes in the flat while Molly puts the coffee on.

  
"So, how have you been?  _Where_  have you been? Are you back home to stay, now?" She can't really hold back on the questions anymore, so she just blurts them out, and takes a seat by the kitchen table, opposite Sherlock.

  
"I have been… traveling. My work is not quite finished yet, but I think I'm making progress," he says, and that's probably the most elusive answer he has ever given her. It doesn't sound much like him; she's used to being told that it's not her business, or to hearing the complete explanation. Still, he's told her that he isn't staying, even if he hasn't spelled it out, and her heart sinks.

  
"So how long are you here for, then?" she asks, and he smiles, much more sadly than she would have liked.

  
"My plane leaves in a few hours," he says. "I came here yesterday afternoon, so this is the longest I have spent in London since we last saw each other."

  
" _The longest_? You mean you've been to London before now? And you didn't tell me?" Molly's voice is shriller than she wishes it were, but there's little she can do about it now. She has been so glad and so relieved to see him, but now she only feels disappointed. Of course Sherlock will not come and see  _her_  first thing, it's stupid to expect that, but for a moment, she has let herself believe that that is indeed what he has done. She hasn't learned a thing, then.

  
"Ah, yes, I have been here twice," Sherlock says, uncomfortably. "There was no time for socialising, unfortunately. The first time I helped to bring down a smuggling ring, and it was far too public a case for me to stay in the country for any of the aftermath. Last time I was in pursuit of an assassin, and I had to follow her to Reykjavik only hours after I arrived in London."

  
He stands up abruptly, and fixes two cups of coffee – his as he always takes it, and he gets hers exactly right, too, without asking. He doesn't ask her where the mugs are, either, or where she keeps the sugar, yet he finds them effortlessly, but she expects things like this from him already.

  
He hands her the other mug before sitting back down, and Molly suspects he took the break to figure out what to say next.

  
"It isn't as if I have stayed away deliberately, Molly," he assures her, but it's not the charming voice he uses whenever he wants to convince her to help him in the lab. It's more honest, and more like the usual Sherlock. "Aside from my brother and myself, you are the only one who knows I'm still alive. Pretending to be ordinary gets tiresome, and Mycroft is not good company at the best of times. I did see Lestrade in passing the last time I was here, but it was hardly the same, seeing that I could not exactly say hello."

  
"Has Mycroft told you how they're doing? Lestrade, John and Mrs Hudson, I mean?" Molly asks, because she thinks he might like to know if he doesn't already. Sherlock shakes his head slightly, so she launches into an explanation. "Mrs Hudson's… well, you know how she is. She's sad, and she misses you, but she tries not to let on. She always manages to fill our conversations with anecdotes of you whenever I visit. She's doing fairly well, considering, but she looks a lot older these days. Now, Greg won't say it, but it's obvious he misses you. He brings you up every now and then in the morgue, and we try to figure out which cases you'd find the least dull. I think he's a bit lonely. He got back together with his wife for a while, but they've split again now."

  
Again, Sherlock's shaking his head; this time possibly in disbelief over Lestrade's going back to his unfaithful wife. He seems so very sad. If Molly hadn't seen the way Sherlock was right before he supposedly died, she would think that he has changed considerably while he's been away, but she knows he has always been capable of emotion. He just doesn't like to show it. And even if he hadn't explicitly said that he has always trusted her, and hadn't indeed trusted her with his life (and death), Molly would now be absolutely certain that he trusts her. She reckons that not a lot of people have ever seen Sherlock Holmes as vulnerable as he is now.

  
"John is… coping. He was in a bad shape for a while there. He figured out you knew what was going to happen, and he was absolutely sure you would have had a plan, but when he asked, I told him it was definitely you on my slab, like you said I should. That – that was awful," Molly goes on, and she's not even exaggerating. Telling John that yes, it had definitely been Sherlock, and the man was definitely dead, is the worst lie she has ever told. It's probably also the most important one, otherwise she wouldn't have said it, but it doesn't really make her feel any better about it. "He's resilient, though. He has a slight limp, but he's keeping busy, he's working at an A&E. Oh, and he has a girlfriend, her name's Mary and she's nice. This one might even last a bit longer than they usually do."

  
"So they are all well?" Sherlock summarises, and Molly nods.

  
"Well, they're doing well, considering the circumstances," she amends, partly because it's true and partly because she doesn't want Sherlock to think they're all thriving in his absence, because they're not.

  
"And you?" Sherlock asks, and Molly's taken aback at first before she remembers again that she matters to him, too.

  
"Well, it's been busy at work, like I said," she says, floundering for something interesting to tell him. There really isn't anything. Her life's mostly just been a variation of "eat, sleep, work" for months now. She hasn't much felt like going out lately. "There's really not much to say. I suppose I'm the same as I've always been."  _Only, you know, lying to everyone I know_ , she almost adds. She may as well have said it out loud, because Sherlock's probably picked up on it.

  
He looks at her for a long moment, and she doesn't know whether she should cringe or smile – this is exactly what she knew would happen, he's observing her because she isn't telling him enough, and previous experience tells her it will probably be embarrassing, but on the other hand, unbelievably, she has missed it.

  
"You are lonely," Sherlock finally says, and slowly, haltingly, goes on; "I'm sorry if keeping my secret has caused you distress."

  
"Don't be," Molly replies, and she means it. Sherlock looks surprised. It's probably because everyone's always telling him how he should behave himself and apologise when he hurts people, and when he finally does, she goes and tells him not to. Great positive reinforcement, that. "I mean, I'm glad I know. It can be – it can be a bit hard, and I'm not usually a good liar, but I wouldn't really want to believe you're dead. That would be horrible. Even if I don't know what you're doing or where you are, at least I have hope, so… That's good."

  
She means this, too. Although she has occasionally wished Sherlock had never told her anything, the feeling never lasts, because she quite likes hope. Hope is a good emotion.

  
Sherlock seems to appreciate her response, despite the fact that she's back to speaking like a stammering idiot – or who knows, maybe even somewhat because of it. If she's missed Sherlock's awful comments and rude demands, maybe Sherlock has missed her bumbling efforts at conversation.

  
"And besides, imagine if I wasn't in on it. You'd only have Mycroft for company. Never mind that I helped you fake your death, this is really what you ought to be thankful for," she teases him, to lighten up the mood a little, and she's awarded with a rare laugh from Sherlock, before he turns serious again.

  
"Oh, I am, Molly Hooper, believe me, I am," he says. He downs the last of his coffee and puts the mug back down on the table, and Molly feels like she could cry, because she knows he's going to leave now.

  
She's right; he stands up, and gives her a slight smile. "It has been good to see you," he says, and damn it, now she actually  _is_ crying. Just like last time.

  
"It has been  _so_  good to see you, too," she tells him, and it's true. He hasn't told her much of anything, except the obvious fact of how he's alive and seems to be at least physically well, but it is such a relief for her to know. She follows him in silence to the front door, where he stops and turns around to face her.

  
He's floundering for words – just like last time – so she helps him out.

  
"If you come to London, and if you only have time, you know where to find me," she says. "And if you're away for a long time, or don't have time to visit, I don't know – a postcard every now and then would be nice? You wouldn't even have to write anything on it; just send a card, so I'll know you're still alive, at least."

  
"We'll see," Sherlock says, and then he surprises her by pulling her into an abrupt hug. It's possibly the shortest and loosest hug she's ever had, but it was initiated by Sherlock Holmes, which is really the only thing that matters. "Thank you, Molly."

  
He's opening the door, and Molly still has so many things she wants to say – "good luck", "be safe", and "please come back soon", for example – but she settles on: "Any time, Sherlock." With one last quick smile, he's out the door, and she hurries to the window to get the last glimpse of him, because she knows she probably won't see him again for a long while.

  
She can really only tell by the clothes that it's him, as she has just seen him up close in them. From this distance, she can't see his eyes, which gave him up before; he's changed his hair, his complexion and even the way he walks, and out of nowhere, Molly is hit by the new worry that the next time she sees him, if he wants to make it so, she might not recognise him at all.

  
A week later, she gets a postcard from Vienna. The picture on it is a generic collection of gothic buildings, and there's not a word written on the other side, aside from her name and address, and even that has been printed on a sticker that's been glued to the card, but still, Sherlock's keeping in touch.

  
It takes her about a week before she's able to stop smiling.


	4. John

John Watson thinks he may have lost his mind.

  
Everyone from his therapist to Molly Hooper has been telling him for a bit over a year now that Sherlock Holmes is dead. John himself saw Sherlock stepping off the roof of St Bart's, he saw him fall, and even if he missed the part where Sherlock hit the ground, he did see his friend's bloodied body lying on the pavement. Every fact, every ounce of logic points to the fact that Sherlock's gone. Yet, still, he hasn't quite been able to let go of the idea that if anyone could pull off a hoax like that, it would be Sherlock Holmes.

  
But before now, even if he hasn't been able to fully admit that Sherlock Holmes is definitely, absolutely dead, he hasn't been mad enough to actually think he's seeing his friend, obviously alive, and playing the violin, of all things.

  
He's on a date with his girlfriend, Mary, and they've gone to the symphony – John was the one who suggested it, actually, and perhaps that's further proof that he's losing it. The performance is almost over by now, and it's only the violin solo that has drawn his attention to the violinist. John has been consciously avoiding looking at the man because he acknowledges that the only reason he is sitting here right now, is that he misses Sherlock. He had no intention of making the feeling worse by imagining how Sherlock used to look like when he played; John just wanted to hear the sound again. Now that plan has been shot to hell, because he really can't take his eyes off the man.

  
It isn't Sherlock. It can't be Sherlock, because Sherlock is dead. It absolutely _cannot_   be him, but John would swear on his life that it is. The violinist is the same height as Sherlock, and his movements are exactly the same, but that is where the most obvious resemblance ends. He's wearing a pair of wire-framed glasses, but even despite of them, and at this distance, John can tell that his eyes are the wrong colour. His hair is an ashy grey, and longer and curlier than Sherlock's ever was in the time John knew him. He has a long, faded scar on his right cheek, and there are heavy lines around his eyes and mouth. He's probably at least fifteen years older than John himself, and although appearances can be deceiving, Sherlock couldn't really have aged _that_ much in the span of a year.

  
This man is thinner than Sherlock was, as well – so thin, in fact, that John can clearly make out the tendons in his hands – but that doesn't really rule out Sherlock, as it's been over a year and he could really have lost a lot of weight in that time. What rules out the possibility of it being Sherlock is his age, and also the fact that he's playing violin in the symphony. Why on Earth would Sherlock be doing that?

  
 _No_ , John has to remind himself that what really rules out the possibility of it being Sherlock is the fact that Sherlock Holmes is dead, and he would do well to remember that.

  
Still, there is something about him, something about his charisma and his confidence as he plays, that is so similar to what he used to see in Sherlock that the feeling of recognition is almost impossible to shake.

  
Fortunately, the performance soon ends, the audience applauds and the performers leave the stage, and John is finally able to shake himself out of whatever trance he has been in. He faintly hears Mary asking him if he's all right, and he assures her that yes, he's fine. They don't speak as they make their way out, until in the lobby John almost quite literally runs into Mycroft Holmes. Mycroft is perhaps the second to last person he was expecting to see tonight, and apparently, the feeling is mutual.

  
"Doctor Watson, what a pleasant surprise," Mycroft says, and he does honestly look surprised. "Here to enjoy the concert?"

  
"Ah, yes, Mary and I are having a night out, as it is," John replies, gesturing to his girlfriend, who is looking at Mycroft curiously, and it occurs to John that he probably should introduce them. "Mary, this is Mycroft Holmes. Mycroft, Mary Morstan."

  
"Lovely to meet you," says Mycroft, with a nod at Mary and the same polite smile John has seen on his face often before. "I shall not keep you from your dinner plans any longer, but it was nice to see you are doing well, John. Have a pleasant evening."

  
John barely has time to say "Thanks, and the same to you" before Mycroft has strolled off – John only belatedly notices that he once again has the ever-present umbrella with him, as well as the assistant with the ever-present smartphone.

  
"So, that was Sherlock's brother, then?" Mary asks, sounding slightly impressed. John nods in response. "Well, I believe you about the deductions now. How did he know we had plans for dinner?"

  
John just chuckles, and doesn't tell her that he wouldn't be surprised if Mycroft hadn't observed it, but rather knew because he has them on constant surveillance, instead.

  
He has a hard time concentrating on the conversation at dinner that night, because the thing with the violinist still disturbs him. As does the reappearance of Mycroft – he hasn't seen Sherlock's brother very often since the funeral, and not at all in the recent months, not that he has particularly missed the elder Holmes. To be honest, a man like Mycroft Holmes probably has more reasons to be at the symphony than a man like John Watson, so his presence is hardly inexplicable. But still, to first think that he's seeing Sherlock, and then running into Sherlock's omniscient brother only moments later?

  
He almost says something to Mary, but decides at the last moment not to. He knows it's insane, and he's had quite enough of the pitying looks. He doesn't need to be making up new conspiracy theories.

  
The next morning, when he reads in the paper that the conductor they saw last night has been arrested "by government officials" regarding a terrorist plot, it takes him no time at all to leap into an impossible conclusion, and an equally short time to admit to himself that he has absolutely lost his mind.

  
-x-

  
That is not the last time he sees people that bring to mind his deceased flatmate. Weeks go by, and John almost manages to convince himself that the thing with the violinist was a fluke, and that he isn't even sure of what he thought he saw. But then, he seems to lose what little sense he's had left, for he starts seeing men like the violinist all over London, wherever he goes, a parade of not-quite Sherlocks.

  
One morning, he pops into a coffee shop on his way to work, and when he comes out, there's a man reading a newspaper right outside, and he's the spitting image of Sherlock. Well, if Sherlock had had short, light hair, a thick moustache, a hooked nose, brown eyes and a penchant for tweed. The next day, there's a homeless man outside the hospital where John works, and he doesn't really look a thing like Sherlock – the face is the wrong shape, the nose is all different, and his lips are too thin – but the eyes are exactly, _exactly_ the same as Sherlock's.

  
A few days later, at Speedy's, there's a university student who could have easily passed for Sherlock's son or nephew, but who is much too young to actually be Sherlock. The day after that, there's an old man at the grocery store, hobbling along with a cane, and he is precisely what John thinks Sherlock would have looked like had he been allowed to grow so old.

  
John thinks that this is quite unfair. He thinks that he has suffered enough already; he's still not okay with the fact that his friend is dead, but he's managed to cope, and he does not need a psychotic break now that he is finally starting to get better.

  
No matter how firmly he tells himself that Sherlock is dead, gone, and never coming back, the irregular cavalcade of lookalikes continues. He doesn't say a word to anyone, but Mary, Mrs Hudson and his colleagues all notice how he's getting progressively jumpier with each appearance. There's a new one every few days, and after it's been going on for three weeks, he finally snaps.

  
He's on his lunch break in the hospital cafeteria, paying for his food when he spots the man sitting alone by the window. If Sherlock had thick glasses, awful posture, red hair, a beard and countless freckles, the man could be his twin. John strides over to his table with determined steps, trying not to think of how insane this is.

  
"Excuse me, is this seat taken?" he asks, and the other man slowly shakes his head, glancing around the half-empty cafeteria. They both eat in silence for a moment, before John finally speaks again. "I'm sorry, but do I know you? It's just that you look really familiar for some reason."

  
"Um, I don't think you do," the man says hesitantly, and he doesn't sound like Sherlock at all. Instead of the deep timbre John knows, his voice is higher, almost squeaky. "Who – who are you, exactly?"

  
"John Watson, I'm a doctor at the A &E," John says, now incredibly uncomfortable as he thinks of a way to apologise – and to justify his behaviour somehow. "I think you just remind me of – of a patient I had. Yes, that must be it. Are you sure you haven't had an accident lately?"

  
 _Oh, dear God_. It's at this point where he has to admit that he has reached an all-time low. He's accosting strangers in the cafeteria of his workplace, and this is the best excuse he can think of. _Are you sure you haven't had an accident?_   Jesus, if only he wasn't wearing his identification, he wouldn't have given his real name. His mortification must be visible on his face, because the other man's expression softens.

  
"No, I'm sorry, but I'm pretty sure I haven't," the man says, with remarkable calm. "I'm only here to see a friend who's a patient." This surprises John somewhat; the man is so thin, and his skin is so pale and sallow, that John would have thought he was ill himself. He doesn't comment on it, however; he's embarrassed himself enough for one day.

  
"Oh. Right. I hope your friend gets well soon," he says instead, and picks up his half-eaten food and leaves. He's not hungry anymore, anyway.

  
He doesn't see any lookalikes after that, but a week later, Sebastian Moran, the man Mycroft's people identified as the assassin who was meant to kill John if Sherlock hadn't jumped, is found dead in an alley across the street from where John works. It's in the news, and when John sees the piece on it, the cup of tea he's holding promptly drops to the floor. Of course, the reporters don't know Moran was an assassin, or that he has been in hiding for the past sixteen months, and is supposed to be laying low still. They have no idea Moran is connected to Moriarty, but Mary knows the whole story, and that's why she doesn't ask why John's suddenly gone so pale. She thinks it's because John's remembering Sherlock, or that John's relieved because he doesn't have to worry about a hired gun being after him anymore.

  
Really, John's thinking that if all those Sherlock-lookalikes were actually Sherlock, this would be a good reason for the detective to follow him around. The time at the symphony, well, the conductor turned out to be the perpetrator of some serious crimes, and Sherlock could have been involved in investigating that. And now this thing with Moran; it could have been Sherlock, because what better way is there to spot an assassin than to follow his target around? But that would mean that Moran had been following John around, as well, and that's not something John really wants to contemplate.

  
And really, the point is moot, as _Sherlock is still dead_. It's just a cognitive bias; John knows that the brain is predisposed to noticing things that the owner of said brain is fixating on, and so maybe there really haven't been any more men that bear a resemblance to his dead friend than there were before, maybe John has just been paying them more attention. Besides which, crimes happen all the time, and John is fairly certain that if he were to really look, there would be a lot of arrests made or bodies discovered on the days he saw the lookalikes. It's just a coincidence. Granted, it's a creepy, amazing coincidence, but it's still just a coincidence.

  
He's not going insane, and he's not about to become a mad conspiracy theorist. There is a perfectly logical explanation for everything – it's just a cognitive bias and happenstance – so he really needs to stop trying to draw connections that do not exist.

  
He tells himself that this is a relief. No more assassins; the one assigned to Mrs Hudson Mycroft's men arrested a month after Sherlock's death, and the one that would have killed Lestrade is, again according to Mycroft, in a Columbian prison. Sixteen months after Sherlock's funeral, that whole, awful business is finally over. None of this really makes him feel any better, because it's not like it's going to bring Sherlock back.

 

Molly Hooper, who has been watching the same news broadcast in her flat, can't sit still for her excitement because she, too, knows that that awful business is now finally, _finally_ , over.

 


	5. Everyone

It has been maybe an hour since John saw that news broadcast that featured Sebastian Moran’s death, and Mary has just left for home when it happens. At first, when John hears the front door closing and the footsteps on the stairs he thinks it’s Mary, that she’s forgotten something important and come back for it. He’s turned around to ask her what it is, but the words die in his throat because it’s not her, it’s… Sherlock?

  
And it’s not one of the Sherlock lookalikes, either, it’s actually Sherlock; the hair, the clothes, and the face are all more or less the same as they used to be, although he has lost an alarming amount of weight, his left forearm is in a cast and he has a fairly impressive black eye.

  
It is absolutely, definitely Sherlock, even if it is a visibly older, thinner, sickly, beaten up Sherlock, and all John can think of is _oh thank God._

  
It’s a bit of thank god he isn’t going insane (it _is_ Sherlock he’s been seeing all along), and a bit of thank god he’s already sitting down on the sofa (because he might have fallen over from the shock). But mostly, it’s “thank god” because he is much too overwhelmed to think of anything else.

  
This exact moment, this is his fondest wish and wildest dream come true, this is what he has been hoping and praying for these past sixteen months. This means gaining back the best friend he’s ever had, and a whole life he thought he’d lost, and he is so incredibly, unbelievably, amazingly full of sheer joy that he fears his heart might burst with it.

  
This, he instinctively knows, is a “once in a lifetime” thing, and nothing will probably ever make him feel as good as he does right then. So no need to spoil it by overthinking, really; _oh thank God_ works just fine.

  
“Hello, John,” Sherlock says, with a small smile, and John can finally move again. He bursts laughing – he really can’t help it – as he stands up and strides over to his friend to give him a hug. He’s laughing, and crying – he really can’t help that, either – and when he finally lets go, he sees Sherlock looks happier than he’s ever seen him before; apparently coming back from the dead beats even serial killers.

  
“Hello, Sherlock,” he says, wiping the tears from his face, still grinning like an idiot. “How – what – ?” He wants to ask everything at once, how Sherlock did it, where he’s been, what he’s been doing, but he settles for taking a deep breath and asking, “So, have you been in London all this time, or just lately?”

  
“Oh, I’ve been here a few times, but mostly I’ve been abroad,” Sherlock replies, with a small shrug, and then he grins widely again. “You nearly gave Mycroft an aneurysm when you came to confront me in the cafeteria last week.”

  
“So Mycroft knew, then? And I take it you were after Moran, that’s why you’ve been following me?” asks John, and Sherlock nods. He’s taking off his coat now, and the weight loss that is obvious by his face alone is even more glaring when he’s just in his suit.

  
“Very good, John,” says Sherlock, and he looks pleased, almost proud. “Yes, I had to let Mycroft in on it a few hours after the fact, as I required his assistance. And I had a hand in Moran’s demise, yes. Shall we have a cup of tea while I explain?”

  
And with that, he strides into the kitchen, to make the tea, presumably. John is left in the living room to stare in wonder – aside from the incident with the coffee in Baskerville, he doesn’t think Sherlock ever has fixed him a drink.

  
And soon enough, once the tea is done, they sit down and Sherlock lines out how Molly Hooper helped him stage his suicide and how he and Mycroft have been working together to dismantle Moriarty’s empire, and though he doesn’t go into a lot of detail, John gets the feeling that it hasn’t been an easy sixteen months for Sherlock, either.

  
“So, the black eye and the broken arm – was that Moran?” John asks when Sherlock is finally done talking, and the consulting detective nods. “And I suppose you’re so thin because you still refuse to eat while you’re on a case?” Sherlock nods again, and John takes a good, long look at him, this time in a more professional sense. The man looks like he might keel over from exhaustion at any moment.

  
“Right. Doctor’s orders, you need to eat something, and then you need to get some sleep,” he says sternly, and Sherlock looks around, apprehensive.

  
“Where?” he asks slowly, and John has to admit he has no idea what he’s referring to.

  
“Where what?”

  
“Where will I be sleeping?” Sherlock asks, and if John didn’t know him better he’d say the man looks irritated, but he does know him, and this is about as embarrassed as Sherlock gets. “I suppose under normal circumstances, the sofa would work fine, but I have a few cracked ribs, and I really don’t wish to –”

  
“ _Sherlock_ ,” John interrupts, quite forcefully. “I think your own bed will do just fine.”

  
And this is an extraordinarily rare sight to see; a speechless Sherlock Holmes.

  
“You still have my bed?” he asks, stunned – there’s really no other word for it.

  
“Take a look around you, Sherlock – all your things are still in here,” John points out. “Mrs Hudson packed up your chemistry equipment, and she does keep talking about donating them to a school or something, but we didn’t actually have the heart to get rid of anything.”

  
Wordlessly, Sherlock stands up and goes straight to his bedroom, which John knows is exactly the same as it was the last time the detective saw it. Well, barring the small amount of dust, and the boxes of his equipment. Slowly, John follows him.

  
“I didn’t expect this – it’s been over a year, I was afraid you’d have moved on,” Sherlock says, running a hand over the spines of his books, and moving on to stroke the case of his violin, which has been placed on the desk. John pretends he hasn’t picked up on the choice of words, but still it gives him a pang in his heart to hear Sherlock’s been _afraid_ that they’d move on.

  
“Yeah, well, you wouldn’t expect it, would you? Sentiment,” says John, and even though his words could be construed as harsh, his tones are anything but.

  
“Thank you.” It’s by far the most heartfelt thing John has ever heard.

  
“No, thank _you._ You did save all our lives with your trick, after all,” he says, suddenly awkward. Sherlock smiles again.

  
“You know, it really is great to see you again, John.” Before John can assure him that the feeling is most definitely mutual, Sherlock goes on, “Is Mrs Hudson home? I think I ought to tell her I’m back. I would have asked her to join us earlier, but I thought you might appreciate some privacy.”

  
John barely has time to nod before Sherlock’s already brushing past him on his way downstairs – but not without clapping John heartily on his good shoulder as he passes him.

  
John gives the two of them the privacy Sherlock implied he wished, but he hears his landlady’s weeping and cries of joy all the way to his living room, anyway.

  
-x-

  
It’s the day after Molly heard the news of Sebastian Moran’s death, and she’s waiting for something to happen. She doesn’t really know what it will be, and she supposes she’s been waiting for something to happen for the past sixteen months, but now the feeling is more tangible, now she knows that it’s really close.

  
She’s seen Sherlock only once since that day in St. Bart’s, but she’s received no fewer than fifteen postcards. The last one was her favourite, and it was different from the rest; it had appeared in the lab, and it said “one to go”. The picture on it is of London. From this, Molly has put together that Moran was the last one, and Sherlock can come back now.

  
She’s amused herself in the past months by thinking how exactly he is going to do it. Somehow, she can vividly imagine him just going to 221B Baker Street as usual, and impatiently brushing off the shock John and Mrs Hudson are sure to feel. Still, especially after his visit, she doesn’t think that’s exactly what he’ll do. Either way, she’s fairly certain that he will let John know first, and she hopes he’ll do it in private, instead of marching up to John at work or something like that. Yes, first John and Mrs Hudson, then probably Lestrade, and Molly reckons she’ll see him at the morgue soon. She can’t wait.

  
Sherlock surprises her, though. Molly’s just back home from work, and she’s thinking of ordering something in, when there’s a knock at her door, and even though she’s known that he’s coming back, she’s still surprised to see Sherlock right there and then.

  
“Good evening, Molly,” he says. He looks a lot worse than he did the last time Molly saw him; he’s lost even more weight, and he’s alarmingly pale.  He has a cast on one arm, and he also has a black eye that looks to be painful. The important thing is, though, that he looks like _Sherlock_ again, and he looks happy, and not so tired. Probably contributing to his happiness is the man at his side; at least Molly has been right in thinking that he’d go to John first.

  
“Hey, Molly. Sorry we’re just popping by unannounced, but we brought food, Sherlock figured you’d be hungry,” says John, holding up a bag of what seems to be Chinese takeout, cheerful but also a bit awkward. “I hope this isn’t a bad time.”

  
“Oh, no, it’s always lovely to have company! And I was just about to order something, actually, so this is a very good time to pop by with dinner,” Molly says, and steps aside to let them pass. “Come in, come in.”

  
She takes their coats and hopes fervently that she hasn’t left anything too embarrassing lying about.

  
“So, Sherlock, you’re back now?” she asks, before actually thinking about what she’s saying, and with a panicked glance at John, she hastens to correct. “I mean, obviously you’re here, and alive, so…”

  
“It’s all right, Molly, John knows you helped me,” Sherlock assures her. “I apologise for taking the privilege of sharing your role in the events without asking your permission first, but I only told John, and he knows better than to tell others.”

  
“Yes, no need to worry, I promise not to blog about it,” says John wryly.

  
“I’m sorry I had to lie to you, John,” Molly says, and she can’t help feeling enormously relieved that she can say that. She is no longer the only one to know Sherlock’s secret – in fact, Sherlock’s secret isn’t a secret at all anymore, or if it is, it won’t be for long – and it is such a load off her shoulders that she feels ten pounds lighter, all of a sudden.

  
“For heaven’s sake, Molly, don’t apologise! You saved his life.” John seems even more awkward now than he did before, outside the door. Perhaps he’s afraid Molly will get all sentimental and start crying on him. Sherlock, on the other hand, is smiling.

  
“Oh, I’m not apologising for that, I said I was sorry I had to lie,” Molly says, waving a hand at him, and leading the two men to the living room. “Um, why don’t you make yourselves at home? Did you bring chopsticks or should I get the silverware?”

  
Sherlock laughs at that, and flops down on her sofa. “I think forks would be better for all, Molly, thank you. Oh, and don’t mind John, he’s only surprised to find you so calm and collected. I think he was somewhat expecting a nervous breakdown on your part.”

  
Indeed, when Molly glances at John, she sees he does look a bit bemused, by her, of all people! But then again, this is probably the first time John has seen her act more like herself and less like a schoolgirl with a hopeless crush in front of Sherlock.

  
“No, that’s not it; you’re just usually a bit more…” John’s struggling to find a word that wouldn’t offend her, Molly thinks, and graciously spares him the trouble.

  
“Nervous? I know,” she says, and then she shrugs. “But there’s no need for that anymore, Sherlock’s been much nicer since he died.”

  
“Why thank you, Molly,” the consulting detective in question inserts dryly.

  
“You’re welcome,” Molly teases him with a smile, and goes off to get the forks. Her flat’s not all that big, so she hears loud and clear John’s hiss of “thanks for that, mate” to the kitchen.

  
They don’t really talk about Sherlock’s absence or return over dinner. John tells her how Mary has been, and they chat about work; Molly shares a few things of the interesting autopsies Sherlock missed while he was away, and he pesters her for more details. All in all, it’s one of the nicest evenings Molly has had in a while, and she can’t help but remember how, the last time he was here, Sherlock noticed she was lonely.

  
She has no illusions of this becoming a regular thing, or indeed of it ever happening again. Still, as far as ways of saying “thank you” go, she thinks this is one of the best Sherlock could have come up with.

  
And it’s only when Sherlock and John get up to leave that she remembers to thank him, for all the cards.

  
Sherlock tries to just wave it off by saying it was nothing, but John asks her what she’s talking about.

  
“She was worried, so I sent her postcards to say I was still alive,” Sherlock explains impatiently. “It hardly took effort on my part, so there is really no need to thank me for it.”

  
“But it was thoughtful of you, all the same,” Molly insists.

  
“Huh. Okay, I get what she meant about you being nicer since you died,” says John, and he seems somewhat pensive now.

  
“Well, I suppose we’ll see you at St. Bart’s soon enough,” Sherlock tells her as John’s about to open the door to leave.

  
“I’m looking forward to it,” Molly replies, grinning like an idiot. Compared to his last visit and departure, the mood couldn’t be more different. Sherlock seems to be thinking along the same lines, as he looks around as if to say ‘here we are again’, and smiles at her. As a last, nonverbal thank you, he pulls her into a quick, loose hug, as he did the last time.

  
“Good night, Molly Hooper,” he says, stepping to the stairway after John.

  
“Good night, Sherlock,” she calls back before closing the door. There’s no need to run to the window for a last glimpse this time; she’ll see him again soon enough, after all.

  
-x-

  
That same evening, Greg Lestrade is about to leave for home from work – late, as usual – when there’s a knock at the door of his office. It’s John Watson, and as if that wasn’t surprising enough, he’s accompanied by Sherlock Holmes.

  
It’s Sherlock, no doubt about it, even if there seems to be considerably less of him than the last time Lestrade saw him. And although someone has clearly beaten the snot out of him, he’s still looking remarkably good for a bloke who’s been dead for over a year. It hits him with a small delay, the realisation that Sherlock isn’t dead, and he’s extraordinarily glad he’s already sitting down.

  
For him, this sight of the man standing awkwardly by the door brings such a staggering feeling of relief that he feels winded. Sherlock, the young addict he helped back on his feet, the consulting detective with the brightest mind he’s ever seen, the most infuriating bloody bastard ever to set foot in London, and the greatest man he’s ever known, is still alive. Sherlock didn’t permanently give his life for theirs, Sherlock’s back, and Lestrade will get his chance to apologise.

  
“Hello, Greg.” John is the one to speak first, possibly to assess how the D.I. is feeling, as Lestrade believes his face has gone entirely blank and impressively colourless. That’s what usually happens when he has such a shock. Lestrade doesn’t get a word out before Sherlock starts talking, and perhaps it’s by some previous agreement, but once Sherlock is speaking, John surreptitiously leaves the room.

  
“We went by your house first, and seeing how you weren’t there, we thought it better to come here. I could have texted you, of course, but I think you’d rather hear it in person.”

  
“Hear what?” Not the most intelligent question Lestrade has ever asked, perhaps, but it’s really the only one he feels capable of at the moment.

  
“Well, the obvious. I’m not dead. And I’m back,” Sherlock says. Maybe it’s because he couldn’t really bring himself to believe it before he heard it said out loud, but it’s only now that Lestrade manages to smile. In fact, he’s fairly certain his face might split in half any moment now, thanks to the grin.

  
“It’s bloody good to see you, mate,” he says, finally getting up and walking over to the other man. He holds his hand out for Sherlock to shake, and once the younger man does, he pulls him into a brief hug.  He gives him a pat on the back before letting him go and stepping back. “You have been sorely missed.”

  
Sherlock smiles at this.

  
“I should think so. Your people haven’t much improved while I’ve been away; I managed to get all the way to your office without anyone noticing anything unusual.”

  
Lestrade can’t help laughing at this snub, seeing how it seems to be perfectly true.

  
“So, are you going to tell me where you’ve been and what you’ve been up to? Or how you did it?” he asks, and Sherlock shakes his head slightly.

  
“I was ensuring that my return would have no unpleasant consequences, but I’m afraid I can’t give you the details,” he replies seriously, before smiling again. “We did actually meet one of the times I was in London.”

  
It takes Lestrade a moment to figure out what Sherlock’s referring to, but once he does, he thinks it should have been obvious. Hadn’t he thought to himself then how the man looked so much like Sherlock?

  
“Sigerson, huh?” he asks, and Sherlock takes a small bow. “So, what did you think of the case?”

  
“You were right, I did quite enjoy it,” Sherlock replies, and for some reason, this knowledge makes Lestrade really rather glad.

  
“Did you have plans for tonight?” he asks, suddenly getting an idea, and Sherlock shakes his head again. “That’s good, because I have a few others you might like to take a look at, if you’re in the mood for it.”

  
They’re certainly ones that Lestrade would like Sherlock to take a look at; the ones that eluded them and had the whole team cursing the absence of the consulting detective. There are not that many, but he does have a few open cases, the files still waiting on his desk for sudden inspiration or new evidence, and since Sherlock’s here anyway…

  
The consulting detective positively lights up at this suggestion, and Lestrade takes that to mean that yes, he’s in the mood for it.

  
“I suppose we should fetch John from the corridor, first,” Sherlock muses aloud, and Lestrade agrees. He’s already turning towards the door when Sherlock halts him by putting a hand on his shoulder. “It’s good to see you, too, Lestrade.”

  
And that is the last of any sentimental talk they have that evening, as then Sherlock calls for John and they start going through the case files. Even if John and Greg exchange grins at some of Sherlock’s more impressive deductions, and Sherlock doesn’t call either one of them an idiot that night, there’s no need to talk about why that is.

  
Although this is a very welcome change to the “new normal” that Lestrade has been getting used to for the past sixteen months, and indeed a refreshing change to the old normal in terms of Sherlock’s attitude and Lestrade’s patience regarding it, they all know things will be back to the way they were soon.

  
When Lestrade introduces cases to the consulting detective, they won’t be received with such excitement, but rather complaints of dullness and boredom, and refusal to ride along to the crime scenes in his car – the usual Sherlock treatment. And there will be actual crime scenes again, where Sherlock will be all inappropriately cheerful, and scoff at Lestrade and his colleagues, and say all the wrong things to the families of the victims.

  
Lestrade can hardly wait for it.


End file.
